_1 Daugh._ O thou god, Thou feared god, if ever to thy justice Insulting wrongs, and ravishments of Women, Women deriv'd from thee, their shames, the sufferings Of those that daily fill'd thy Sacrifice With Virgin incense, have access, now hear me, Now snatch thy thunder up, now on these _Romans_, Despisers of thy power, of us defacers, Revenge thy self, take to thy killing anger, To make thy great work full, thy justice spoken, An utter rooting from this blessed Isle Of what _Rom[e]_ is or has been. _Bon._ Give more incense, The gods are deaf and drowsie; no happy flame Rises to raise our thoughts: Pour on. _2 Daugh._ See heaven, And all you pow'rs that guide us, see, and shame We kneel so long for pity over your Altars; Since 'tis no light oblation that you look for, No incense offering, will I hang mine eyes; And as I wear these stones with hourly weeping, So will I melt your pow'rs into compassion. This tear for _Prosutagus_ my brave Father, Ye gods, now think on _Rome_; this for my Mother, And all her miseries; yet see, and save us; But now ye must be open-ey'd. See; heaven, Oh see thy show'rs stoln from thee; our dishonours, [_A smoak from the Altar._ Oh Sister, our dishonors: can ye be gods, And these sins smother'd? _Bon._ The fire takes. _Car._ It does so, But no flame rises. Cease your fearful prayers, Your whinings, and your tame petitions; The gods love courage arm'd with confidence, And prayers fit to pull them down: weak tears And troubled hearts, the dull twins of cold spirits, They sit and smile at. Hear how I salute 'em: Divine _Andate_, thou who hold'st the reins Of furious Battels, and disordred War, And proudly roll'st thy swarty chariot wheels Over the heaps of wounds and carcasses, Sailing through seas of blood; thou sure-steel'd sternness, Give us this day good hearts, good enemies, Good blowes o' both sides, wounds that fear or flight Can claim no share in; steel us both with angers, And warlike executions fit thy viewing; Let _Rome_ put on her best strength, and thy _Britain_, Thy little _Britain_, but as great in fortune, Meet her as strong as she, as proud, as daring; And then look on, thou red ey'd god: who does best, Reward with honor; who despair makes flie, Unarm for ever, and brand with infamy: Grant this, divine _Andate_, 'tis but justice; And my first blow thus on thy holy Altar [_A flame arises._ I sacrifice unto thee. _Bon._ It flames out. [_Musick._ _Car._ Now sing ye _Druides_. [_Song._ _Bon._ 'Tis out again. _Car._ H'as given us leave to fight yet; we ask no more, The rest hangs in our resolutions: Tempt her no more.